Chapter 26
When I message Rudy Rivon (because I don’t have my mother’s number and wouldn’t have had the courage to reach out to her directly anyway), my fingers are less than steady.
I’ve given it some thought, I type while the others hover around my shoulders like eager parrots.
I shouldn’t have run out of there like that, and I want to apologize. But you surprised me—
“No,” Vera interrupts. “You can’t apologize and make excuses. It’s one or the other.”
I backspace. I want to apologize. I think I’m ready to join—
“You can’t say you’re ready to join yet,” one of the Youvu Hums protests. “It’s too soon for that.”
More backspacing. I was hoping we could set up a time to talk, maybe on The Parallax—
“Too blatant,” Avi objects. “They’ll know your angle.”
“You write it, then,” I huff, tossing the handheld at the group.
Jester catches it, and they all huddle around, muttering about verbiage and length and whether or not to use an exclamation point.
I try to exchange an Are you seeing this?
look with Lament, but he’s removed himself from the conversation and is now sitting on the edge of his bed, pointedly ignoring me. Which I get. Even if it sucks.
At last, Vera holds up the device and says, “Done.”
“It’s a good message,” Toph notes preemptively, touching his tongue to his lip. “It strikes the right balance between I’m interested in making amends and I’m definitely not attempting to infiltrate your spaceship. I expect we should be hearing back any—” The screen lights up in Vera’s hand.
As one, the group (minus Lament) pile around to read.
I’m glad you remain open to discussion, comes Rivon’s reply, in similarly conciliatory tones. I think I owe you an apology for how things went at the museum. Nina and I talked, and we realize we were probably a bit heavy-handed.
Avi snorts. “Speaking over someone is heavy-handed. Locking a person in a room is criminal.”
The group starts to compose their reply (or, I should say my reply), but a string of messages follows Rivon’s last one. Nina and I would like to set up another meeting.
I know you have questions about our movement and our mission.
We think it would be best for you to talk to Ran personally.
If that’s agreeable.
Everyone starts speaking at once, but Vera shushes them as she types furiously. It takes longer than it should for her to land on I think that will work.
Avi gives a slow clap. “You’re an artist.”
“Shh,” Vera hisses.
“He can’t hear us,” Avi complains.
“I can hear you.”
This time, Rivon’s reply takes longer. While most of the Sixers are watching the handheld for a message, my attention drifts, once again, to Lament.
He looks … unhappy. In, like, a deep, in-your-bones kind of way.
And … it’s my fault, isn’t it? Which means it’s also my responsibility to set things right.
I should go to him. Ask what he’s thinking, what I can do to make it better.
Only, confronting him here, now, would take a type of courage I don’t have on the best of days. And today has not been the best.
At last, Rivon’s reply lights up the screen. Excellent. I’ll send the location.
And just like that, we’re in.
Rivon and I agree on a time (three days from now, which is both way sooner than I’m mentally prepared for, yet weirdly forever away), and he sends over an encrypted message that contains The Parallax’s coordinates, which will unscramble the morning we’re due to arrive.
Vera (who has apparently claimed permanent possession of my handheld) passes the message to Jester and says, “Decrypt that, will you?”
Jester scans the link into his visor and assumes a look of deep concentration. After a minute, he shakes his head. This is … unusual.
“What’s wrong?”
The coordinates are not actually encrypted. They’ve just been converted into another language.
“And,” Vera asks without hope, “it’s a language you can translate?”
Jester makes a face. It’s not pulling up in my database.
“How is that possible?”
Either the language has been wiped from the records—only feasible for those with Level IV Legion security access—or it’s of Doc Min’s own invention.
Avi slips the handheld from Jester’s fingers and begins sounding out the words. “Borj at mal tepindee don lay—”
“Hang on,” Lament says, in the tone of someone who’s been surprised into speaking. “That’s Vinicchi.”
“What?” Vera frowns. “You mean, the language of Bast’s family? But how can that—?”
“The Vinicchis are Determinists.”
“Oh.” Vera looks a bit pale. “That’s right. I forgot.”
That explains the encryption. Jester runs a knuckle under his jaw. If Doc Min managed to recruit the Vinicchis into the Determinist movement, maybe he’s also commandeered their language.
“And,” the Youvu Hums say as they raise their brows, “used his Legion insurgents to wipe the language from the records so no outsiders can gain access.”
“I bet the Vinicchis are the ones who funded Doc Min’s encryption technology,” Vera says. “Among other things, surely. That family is loaded.” She looks at Lament. “Can you translate it?”
“Even if I could,” Lament says succinctly, “I wouldn’t.”
Avi makes a show of rolling her eyes. “We know you’re not on board with Operation Infiltration, but that’s no excuse to be such a sour lemon.”
He shoots Avi a look. “Sour lemon?”
“You know.” Avi makes a face like she’s bitten into one of Jester’s gummies.
Lament glowers. “I do not look like that.”
“He’s right.” Toph nudges Avi’s arm. “It’s more like—” He hunches his back and curls his hands into claws.
“Ooo.” Avi claps appreciatively. “I like what you did there.”
We don’t need a translator, Jester interrupts.
Now that I know the language is Vinicchi, I can do a reverse electromagnetic spectrum search.
It’s like a regular search, he explains at our blank looks, except I’m pulling data from historical radio frequencies imprinted onto space-time and piecing them together to reverse engineer the language.
“Do not,” Vera says gravely, “ever switch to Doc Min’s side. We’d have no hope.”
Luckily tomorrow’s our day off, because it takes Jester the better part of the evening to pull historical radio imprints off space-time (whatever that means) and unscramble the language.
To be supportive, the Sixers hang around, offering suggestions which range from mildly amusing (“Have you tried spelling the coordinates backward?”) to downright deranged (“What if you replace every semicolon with the word murder?”).
Vera trots off to find us some midnight snacks, Avi draws pictures of angry-looking hamsters on her whiteboard (“They’re for morale!
”), and the others lounge on the floor or Lament’s couch, yawning, chatting, generally talking strategy.
I keep trying to catch Lament’s eye. He keeps avoiding me.
It’s nearly one in the morning when Jester finally lifts his head. I’ve got it. He switches the view of his visor to project a 3D hologram of Doc Min’s spacecraft into the air. And it’s …
It’s really, very much not good.
Here’s the thing. I’m no spacecraft expert, but even I can recognize a BlackWing when I see one.
That is the craft designed by the (in)famous Martin Grimm, who was part scientist, part madman, best known for his splicing experiments on extinct land reptiles.
Basically, the guy wanted to resurrect deadly dinosaur hybrids, and he needed a place to work where (a) the hybrids couldn’t escape, and (b) no one would figure out what he was up to.
The BlackWing is, to put it shortly, a fortress.
Grimm was eventually arrested, and his experiments were put to an end, but the galaxy saw the potential in his ship and began reproducing the model for maximum security prisons.
There aren’t many BlackWings in circulation anymore—it’s all from an era past—but they’re wildly valuable.
And somehow, Doc Min has managed to turn one of them into his headquarters.
Lament takes one look at the spaceship, stands up, and leaves the room.
Toph rubs his beard. “This changes things.”
“Yeah,” I reply faintly.
“Oh, Keller.” Vera scratches dismayed fingers across her scalp. “If that’s really a BlackWing, wiring you won’t work.”
BlackWings are crafted from korathamite, Jester explains. The material is designed to block communication reception. Once you’re on board, we’ll have no way to know if you’re in trouble.
“And even if we did,” Avi adds, “we wouldn’t be able to come for you.”
“You’re a pyrotechnician,” I tell Avi in a voice that is trying its very hardest not to be a whine. “Can’t you just, you know”—I wave my hand around—“blast it to pieces?”
“Are you familiar with the term plucking feathers off a bald chicken?”
“I thought you were supposed to be the best.”
Avi gives me a withering look. “I am.”
Vera pulls her lip between her teeth. “Jester? Is there a workaround?”
Every BlackWing uses its own form of wire interference, Jester says. I could maybe break into this one, but I’d need time. And if not … He goes still. I’ve just had an idea. He stands on long legs and rushes off.
“All right.” Vera claps her hands. “We have less than three days to get Keller prepared for his jaunt onto The Parallax, with emphasis on this new development of BlackWing-level security. If”—she looks at me—“you’re still doing this?”
I don’t hesitate. “I’m still doing this.”